by Emily Mckay
Also by Emily McKay
Creative Hearts Series
Weddings, Crushes, and Other Dramas
How Willa Got Her Groove Back
The Farm Series
The Farm
The Lair
The Vault
The Before
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Crown of Bones, by A.K. Wilder
The Afterlife of the Party, by Marlene Perez
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Emily McKay. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Road
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
[email protected]
Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Edited by Brenda Chin
Cover design by L.J. Anderson, Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover images by
vadimphoto1/Depositphotos
SergeyNivens/Depositphotos
Vertyr/Depositphotos
den-belitsky/iStock
MelashaCat/Depositphotos
artant/AdobeStock
Interior design by Toni Kerr
ISBN 978-1-64063-656-9
Ebook ISBN 978-1-64063-657-6
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition May 2020
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This one is for the all the dreamers in the world. The hopers and the wishers. The space cadets. The dads at Disney wearing goofy T-shirts. And Goofy T-shirts. Anyone who lives more in their own head than in the outside world. I truly believe that story is the magic that weaves the world together and you are all wizards.
Also, Club Oreo: Adi, Anisha, Avyu, Diya, Emma, Katelyn, Miranda, Nastasia, Tati, & Unnathi. Thank you for letting me be part of your lives.
PROLOGUE
The Traveler Undone, the final book in The Traveler Chronicles, was released on the same day the movers delivered our boxes to the new apartment—the ninth in six years.
The Traveler Chronicles was my favorite series. Ever. I loved Kane, the hero from those books, more than any other hero. More than Harry Potter. More than Aragorn from Lord of the Rings. More than Wade Watts from Ready Player One.
According to interviews with the author, Chuck Wallace, The Traveler Undone would be the last book.
I don’t know what sacrifices Mom made to the bookstore gods to get a book delivered on release day to an apartment we’d lived in less than twenty-four hours. I didn’t ask.
But when the I saw the box, I knew exactly what it was.
A beginning and an ending all in one day.
It felt auspicious.
“What do you want to do now?” Mom asked, as I clutched the box.
Yeah. Like she didn’t know.
I wanted to crawl into bed with my book. I wanted to not move again until I was done.
“We’re finally close to a Cheesecake Factory, she offered.
I squeezed the box to my chest. I could almost feel the beating heart of the book through the cardboard. “Maybe for dinner?”
Her lips twitched with a smile more resigned than amused. “Sure, kiddo.”
Pretending I didn’t notice how sad her eyes looked, I crossed the living room of the garage apartment, heading for the single bedroom Mom and I would share. I didn’t want to open it in front of her. I wanted to be alone when I saw the book for the first time. When I ran my fingers over the embossed cover. I wanted to make a ceremony out of it.
I had almost escaped to the bedroom when Mom said, “I just want—”
She cut herself off, either unwilling or unable to finish her sentence. That’s what stopped me.
She was still by the front door, threading her keys in and out of her fingers. The apartment was so tiny that we were barely ten feet apart. The living room held a sofa and a chair, both pushed too close to the center to accommodate the boxes stacked against the wall—all of the stuff we’d hauled from one place to the next as we followed Mom’s job across the country. The effect was claustrophobic.
Once again my mom’s gaze dropped to the box in my hands. Self-consciously, I tucked it behind my back. Mom wasn’t a reader. Not like me. She’d never understood the need to escape reality.
I wanted to live in a world where the monsters were hellhounds and demons, not isolation and bullies. In a world where the bad guys could be slayed. Where a valiant hero—or better yet, a snarky, reluctant one—would always step in to win the day.
“I just want to give this place a shot.”
“Sure.”
“The doctors give Ms. Polinski a year or more. And Seattle could be a real home for us. Especially after…”
Regret flickered across her expression. Then she crossed over to me and gave me a fierce hug.
Her voice trembled, even though her hands didn’t. “You could make friends here.”
Thank God she was hugging me too tightly to see me roll my eyes.
The last place we lived, somehow, someone found out about Dad. I don’t know how, because I sure as shit didn’t tell them. After that, friends were low on my list of requirements.
Still, I knew what she wanted to hear. “Yeah. Of course.”
“You don’t have to spend your whole life reading. You can go out. Be around other people more. Go to parties.”
“I can’t wait.”
My voice sounded falsely high. Too optimistic.
What
Mom didn’t understand, what she had never understood, was that I didn’t want those things. Even if I knew how to make new friends, I was happy where I was. At home with a book.
Mom was a palliative care nurse—one of the best in the country. Which was a fancy way of saying she took care of rich people who were dying.
She had an important job and she was amazing at it. I knew she felt guilty about moving us around so much, but it wasn’t her fault. A single mom did what she had to.
And an introverted, book-loving loner like me did what she had to do, too. I gave my mom an I-love-you-but-back-off hug and then retreated to the bedroom.
The garage apartment came furnished in fancy-shmancy, rich-people guesthouse luxury. So I kicked off my Converse and spread my Hufflepuff blanket out on the velvet chaise lounge before curling up with the box. I sliced it open with the very tip of my scissors. No way I’d risk scratching the cover.
Since I’d been stalking the Chuck Wallace blog tour, I’d seen the cover a ton of times—it featured Kane, standing in profile, wearing his black leather duster, his blackthorn blasting rod in his hand.
I traced the line of his arm before flipping the book over. There were no words printed on the back—only an outstretched feminine hand and the fluttering hem of a petal-covered skirt. It was as if Kane were watching a woman leave. Would this be the book I’d been waiting for? Well, me and every other female reader. Would Kane finally get a love interest?
I eased the book open to read the blurb on the front cover flap.
You don’t want to read this book.
Sure, maybe you’re one of the millions of Dark Worlders who’ve read the first four books. It might be too late for you.
But in case you’re not one of those fools, I’ll bring you up to speed.
The Kingdoms of Mithres are a mess. The High King died a year ago. As far as everyone knows, he doesn’t have an heir. Since then, the seven remaining High Courts have been duking it out for power. The Curator—the one person who could restore the balance of power—went looking for the lost heir and hasn’t been seen since. Rumor is she crossed over to your world to search there.
But me? I’ve got bigger problems. Closer-to-home problems. A princess of the Red Court has been kidnapped. If I can find her and get her to Saint Lew in time for her wedding, the reward is substantial—buy-my-own-private-island substantial.
Maybe I’ll even retire from this life of thieving, cheating, and bounty hunting I’ve been doing since my mom died when I was thirteen. Then I wouldn’t have to spend every waking second looking over my shoulder.
If I’m going to save the princess, I need to stay one step ahead of everyone else. And ten steps ahead of Smyth, his pack of hellhounds, and his army of Sleekers who guard the thresholds between this world and the Dark World.
Oh, by the way, Smyth killed my mother, the High Queen. He’s been hunting me ever since.
Why, you ask? Because I’m a Dark Worlder.
I’m a changeling. A human, swapped as an infant for the High Queen’s own dying Tuatha baby. Which, coincidentally, also makes me the missing heir everyone is looking for.
How can I be a Dark Worlder changeling and the missing heir to the most powerful magic legacy in the Kingdoms?
This is Mithres, where the thread of magic connects every living being, where the Tuatha practice elemental magic you can’t even imagine, where Sirens swim the oceans and dragons soar the skies.
Here, anything is possible.
I read the words before closing the book and squeezing it tight to my chest. Yeah. Hugging that book brought me more comfort and joy than hugging my mom. A greater sense of peace. Of belonging.
Mom would never get that. But I never even questioned it.
I’d lived a thousand lives through books. I’d had adventures she couldn’t even imagine. The world between the pages of a book was as real to me as this world was.
Of course, I didn’t know then what I know now. I didn’t know that the world of Kane the Traveler really was real. I didn’t know that in that world, I was more powerful than I could ever imagine.
And I never dreamed it was real for my mother, too.
Excerpt from
Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:
The Traveler Undone
Sure, I have a binding name, but if you’re stupid enough to ask me what it is, I don’t want to work for you. Most people just call me Kane the Traveler.
I’m a smuggler, a thief, and a wand for hire.
I’ve never started a fight I couldn’t win or broken a law that wasn’t meant to be bent. I fight hard, but dirty—for the right price.
If you need me, just ask around in the sleaziest parts of town and in the seediest bars—the kinds of places no one wants to walk into alone. Eventually, you’ll meet someone who knows how to summon me. But conjure me at your own risk.
I can solve almost any problem, but trouble always finds me. And I promise you this: whatever your problems, mine are worse.
CHAPTER ONE
One year later
As a lifelong reader, I’m something of a connoisseur of monsters. Dragons, vampires, hellhounds. I know all their strengths and weaknesses. I know how to defeat them, (Elven-forged steel, ebony stake, run like hell—respectively). But this monster has me stumped. Mean Girlia Wealthipithica.
This particular Mean Girlia Wealthipithica—Chelsea Banks—is crushing my windpipe with her forearm. She is about to kick my ass, and then hand it back to me in pieces—all sanctioned by the school’s Phys Ed program.
I’ve been in this school only a handful of days, but I already know Chelsea is the queen bee. So far, she’s played nice. All smiles, rainbows, and kittens. But I’ve been in enough dojangs that I know the type. The competitive gleam in her eyes tells me she likes having an excuse to kick ass.
She’s also a politician’s daughter—and she knows how to play the game.
“I’m sorry, Master Flores,” Chelsea says, her eyes wide and innocent. “I can’t do it. It just doesn’t seem right.” Chelsea stands and offers her hand to help me up. “She hasn’t been to your weekly Tae Kwon Do classes.”
Oh, so she can kick ass and kiss ass. No wonder she’s the queen bee.
“Besides…”
“Besides what?” I ask blandly.
She gives me a smile that’s the equivalent to a pat on the head. “Besides, you’re smaller than I am.”
Smaller than her runway-model-worthy five foot ten?
Um, yeah. I’m five four. I don’t have a lot of body fat, but every ounce I do have has settled on my ass and hips. Basically, I look like Judy Hops from Zootopia. So yeah, my body type is cartoon bunny. But I’m no weakling.
“I can defend myself.”
Master Flores looks at me, her gray-capped head cocked to the side pensively. It’s like she’s never met anyone just trying to fly below everyone’s radar long enough to graduate from high school.
Who knows, maybe she hasn’t. After all, AIBS is the school of choice for the daughters of politicians, ranching magnates, and rich foreign nationals. And then there’s me. The new student, shoehorned in to assuage my mother’s guilt over my spotty high school transcript. I’m just trying to be invisible until graduation.
Finally, Master Flores says, “Edena Allegra Keller, step forward.”
Someone behind me snorts at the formal pronunciation of my name, and I cringe. It’s a lot of name.
I step forward. “Most people just call me Edie.”
She gives a tight nod, clearly unimpressed.
She’s a tiny woman—several inches shorter than even me—but I can tell she’s a badass even without counting the gold stripes on her black belt. But I have counted. There are six of them.
I cross to stand before her and bow. With a name like Flores, she could be from almost anywhere—South or Centr
al America. Spain. The Philippines. Though her looks and her accent are unusual, I can’t pin down either one.
She holds out her hand.
Oookay. I take her hand to shake it, but she clasps both her hands around mine. The fingers of her right hand press hard against the inside of my wrist.
After a very long moment, she releases my hand. “I have seen your transcript.”
“Yes, Master.” Behind me, the girls snicker. I ignore it.
“You have earned your black belt in Tae Kwon Do.”
“Yes, Master.” I’d been taking Tae Kwon Do for seven of my seventeen years. It’s the one thing I asked for, no matter where Mom’s job took us—a decent dojang.
“You could have defended yourself against Ms. Banks.”
“Yes, Master.”
Chelsea frowns. She definitely doesn’t like the idea that I might be better at sparring than she is.
“Then you are a coward.”
“No.” Not picking a fight with the most popular girl in school isn’t cowardice. It’s common sense.
“Then show me what you can do.” Obviously, common sense isn’t something Master Flores understands. “Chelsea, get out the bō staffs.”
“Yes, Master,” Chelsea coos.
A moment later, Chelsea tosses a bō staff at me. I barely have time to snatch the six-foot length of polished wood out of the air before Master Flores barks, “Si-Jak.”
“Wait. What?”
I’ve used a bō staff before. In my old dojang, we’d done forms and sparring with foam bō. But I’d never fought with a wooden one.
Before I can protest, Chelsea twirls her bō with flare. She swings the tip toward me, but I get my staff up in time and deflect it away from me.
I’d been okay letting Chelsea fake choke me—I hadn’t been in any real danger—but there’s no way I’m letting her beat me with a piece of polished walnut. A girl has her limits.
The bō feels solidly familiar in my hands and I spin it around with ease, knocking aside her strikes.
Chelsea’s willowy build gives her a long reach, but after only a few minutes of sparring, I can tell she’s not as good as she thinks.
We fall into an easy rhythm. Strike, parry, retreat. Strike, parry, retreat.